Meet Me There Beside the Old White Tree
by Llewellyn McEllis
Summary: It has often been assumed that Boromir son of the Steward was not married when he set out for Rivendell, but what if circumstances require that he hide his marriage to keep from disappointing his difficult to please father? This story takes place between
1. Chapter 1

**Disclaimer** Middle Earth, its characters, events and places are property of J.R.R. Tolkien and the Tolkien estate. No infringement is meant upon these copyrights. 

A/N: In the years before the Fellowship and the War of the Ring Gondor was under constant attack from Mordor. The city of Osgiliath had lay in ruins ever since a plague had ravished the city and the seat of command was taken up in Minas Tirith. While I have combed the appendices, I have never quite found evidence on whether or not Boromir, who was forty-one years old when he set out for the Council of Elrond, was married when he left Gondor for Rivendell. However, since Faramir assumes position of the Steward when Aragorn returns to the throne in Gondor, it is often assumed that Boromir left no certain or legitimate heirs. In this story, I have taken it upon myself to show that Boromir was in fact married, but circumstances hid this from the public eye. If you have evidence that shows for a fact that Boromir took no wife, please speak up and site your evidence like a scholar. People make mistakes, and I'm not afraid to admit that I'm a person.

**Chapter One: The Miller's Daughter**

Laughter trickled into the hallway from the closet behind him and young Faramir rolled his eyes emphatically before leaning backward to catch the promise of his older brother's smooth whisper. As that practiced promise of fidelity left Boromir's lips, Faramir couldn't help stifling a snort of laughter. He would be true to her forever, all she had to do was wait for him, just one kiss, it was all he was asking. One kiss and he'd be hers forever. Faramir rolled his eyes again. How many times had he heard that line before?

However, on the other side of the closet door was a young man more sincere than he had ever been in his life as he leaned down and whispered against her waiting ear, "And after I win back Osgiliath, we'll be married."

Outside the closet Faramir nearly choked. Surely he had misheard "Now that's one I've never heard before," he muttered softly to himself. "Promising to marry her to get her into your arms... Honestly, Brother . . ."

Determined Reyenna's strong willed voice replied, "And what makes you think I would even have you, Boromir son of Denethor? Just because you're the Steward's son, because you'll be Steward one day yourself? You make it sound as though I'm a fool to throw a catch like you away."

"I would be the fool to let you get away," he played against her jest. "Kiss me, Reyenna, please. I leave for Osgiliath in the morning and it would be a shame to die in battle having never tasted those sweet lips of yours."

"All right then," she conceded. "Just one kiss, and that is all."

"One kiss is all I need to make my task worthwhile."

Boromir leant downward and brushed his trembling lips to hers. Sweet merciful fate, he was trembling. Had he ever trembled in the wake of a girl before? Not as long as he could recount, but Reyenna was no girl. . . she was the one, the young woman he had fantasized and daydreamed about since he was just a lad no more than twelve summers. They had played and learned together as young children, and the power of imagination had carried all of them away time and time again, but as they had gotten older, and he'd become more arrogant in his place as the Steward's son, she had withdrawn to a distant place and refused to even give him the pleasure of her time. He had pawed after her for years, while she wittingly drug him panting behind. Seven years had passed since he'd decided she was the one. Seven years and now she was finally ready to negotiate their future.

He wasn't surprised at how warm her lips and body felt against his, but when she pressed the palm of her hand into his chest and drew even closer to him, inborn confidence assured him he had won her. "Won't you marry me, Reyenna?" His breath stroked her cheek in a slow, warm gust.

"One kiss and already you're talking about marriage? Honestly, Boromir! Even I know that's no way to win a girl."

Boromir felt the sly draw of her lips as he swept in for a second kiss, "Ah, but such a kiss is worth the future to me, and I assure you that you've already won me over for yourself. Now let me kiss you one more time." She didn't pull away or protest as he lowered his forearm into the small of her back to sweep her closer. Bodies pressed insanely close together, he started with gleeful surprise when she willingly opened her mouth to accept the full power of his kiss. He had never kissed anyone like her before, not to say he hadn't tried.

He drew back and in the slice of light peeking through the crack of the door at them, he studied her with a stupid smile. "Marry me," he hugged her tight against him.

"Perhaps when you come home we can discuss such things, Boromir, but for now," she drew upward on her tiptoes and brushed her lips to his once more, "just come back to me alive and in one piece."

"Boromir," Faramir called from outside the door. "Keep quiet!" he warned. "Someone's coming."

Boromir playfully covered her mouth his hand and instructed her to, "Shh."

Reyenna reached up and covered his hand with hers, kissing sweetly at the rough, callused fingers that covered her mouth. Boromir withdrew his hand, having decided that perhaps it would be much more useful to keep her quiet with another kiss. He tasted the sweat breath of her kiss and drank her in like wine as he closed his eyes and sunk into that moment. He wanted to remember it forever—to be able to call upon the memory of it on the battlefield when he was in desperate need of comfort.

"Good evening, Mathogon," Faramir spoke too loudly and Boromir grinned at how utterly suspicious his younger brother sounded. Reyenna was so still before him that he questioned whether or not she was even breathing, and just to make certain that she was, he lifted her chin into yet another kiss. She tilted easily into his touch, and fell perfectly into the trap of another kiss, ". . . waiting for my brother to return from the western gate."

"And does your father know your brother's gone off to the western gate?"

Boromir was always using Faramir as his guard and alibi in the event that he had snuck some pretty thing into the castle to beg for a kiss. Mathogon should have known better, in fact from the sound of his pressing conversation as he asked Faramir about everything from his lessons to the most recent hunting excursion Denethor had taken with his sons, Boromir realized he was simply trying to outwit them. If he stood chattering long enough, Boromir and his young lady would tire of the dark and come out to shoo him away, bribing him with a good armor polish if he promised not to tell their father what he had caught them up to.

"You really should come out now, Boromir," Faramir grumbled, leaning his head into the darkened space. "I think it would be in all our best interest if we took this little masquerade out of doors and away from watchful eyes."

"Excellent idea, little brother," Boromir clapped his sibling heavily on the shoulder and slipped out of the shadows tugging Reyenna by the hand behind him. The couple quickly separated, and both cleared their throats uneasily now that they were out in daylight again. "Why don't you walk to the gates with us? I've got to take Reyenna home."

"Boromir," Faramir bit his own tongue. "Boromir, if Father finds out you've ridden beyond the gates. . ."

Boromir shot Faramir a daunting look, "Father won't find out anything if you keep your tongue from wagging!"

"I wouldn't tell Father anything, Boromir," a hurt look crested on the young man's brow, his grey-green eyes filling with disappointment. "You know that."

"Yes, I know you wouldn't, come on then, let's go."

Reyenna withdrew her hand self-consciously and offered Faramir a slow smile, "How are you, Faramir?"

He nodded once, "I'm well."

"Have you finished your testing this term," she asked.

"Not quite yet, but I hope to before the month is out."

"You'll do well," she guessed. "You always were a bright boy."

"And what about me?" Boromir thrust himself in the middle of their conversation.

"If I remember correctly, you were always a trouble maker, Boromir." He took note of her gentle laughter and felt a strange tug from within him. Did she not like trouble makers? Was she saying that she thought Faramir the better pupil for it? "I remember that our master could no sooner than start a lesson before you and Sirion were sneaking off to practice your sword arm and other such battle play."

"And my sword arm is all the better for it now," he assured her, extending the well-muscled appendage for her approval.

"And let me see _your_ sword arm, Faramir," she cast a smug glance upward at Boromir and then looked toward the younger boy with encouragement in her eyes.

"My sword arm is nothing compared to Boromir's," he muttered into his leather breast-plate.

"Oh, come now," she waved. "I'm sure you're equally skilled with a blade, but in a battle of wits I would place my bets on Faramir, who dutifully attends his studies." Boromir could not deny that in matters of competition he hated coming in second best to his brother, and Reyenna knew this. She was deliberately pushing his buttons just the way she'd always done, and while he should have been put off by her game, he found himself drawn even further into her web.

He glanced back and watched his younger brother's face color crimson atop his cheeks and slowly spread in splotchy patches downward. "Faramir is the family scholar." He admitted without the slightest hint of jealousy. He wanted to watch the smugness fade from her glance, but as he turned to look at her he noticed that the look she wore hadn't been smug at all, but encouraging. "One day he'll amaze us all with his scholarly renown."

Faramir rolled his eyes, "Please. Wasn't it you who told me just yesterday that my sword arm would get stiff from holding a book one handed? That I needed to get out more and practice my. . ."

"How is your father, Reyenna?" Boromir swiftly changed the subject.

The smile faded slowly from her face, "He hasn't been well at all, lately, but we'll manage. Things have been a lot harder on him around the mill with my brother gone to Osgiliath. Even I have had to abandon my studies to help out for several hours a day."

"Has it really gotten so bad?" Boromir asked.

"I'm afraid it has, but what more can we do? We lost Siolleth two summers past in battle, and it seemed as though only seconds later Elethan was swept away at the prospect of glory and vengeance. Father is just too old to run the mill alone."

"Perhaps if we ask Father he could spare someone. . ." Faramir began, but Boromir cut him off with a sharp look. "Or better yet, why don't I do it myself? I would be happy to help you and your father every day until your brother comes home from Osgiliath. With Boromir in command it will only be a matter of days before the men have come home."

Reyenna turned her smile upward and reached back to take Boromir's hand again in hers, "That is my greatest hope."

He became lost in the wake of her praise. "Really?"

She nodded, and leaned in closer as they walked together, and it seemed with each step they took toward the gates they drew further and further from the world until it was just the two of them. "You're a strong man, Boromir, with a good sense for things in battle. I have great faith in your ability to win back our city and bring the men home again."

"I'll do my best not to let you down," it was now his turn to humbly blush.

For the remainder of the walk to the gate, and then beyond to the mill Boromir and Reyenna walked closely huddled together as though they shared some sort of secret. Boromir was memorizing everything about her, so that when recalling the memory of her kiss he could envision all of her in total. The dark violet of her eyes, the flow of her brown hair and the subtle curve of her pink lips—he wanted to remember it all. The closer they leaned together, the easier it was for him to commit her to memory, including the curve of her body against his when they occasionally pressed too close together and the sweet scent of her hair whenever he leaned downward and breathed her in.

Faramir walked behind them, watching the strange display, how quickly Reyenna had changed her teasing tune to a muttering sweetness and the whisper of an occasional secret only Boromir was privilege to. He understood why his brother continually pursued her. Of all of the girls they had known since childhood, Reyenna was the only one that had shown true individuality. She walked with her head high, to the tune of her own song, and while her place was well beneath them in the ladder of their society, even Faramir could see that she was rich enough in spirit to be wife of the future Steward.

Their father, on the other hand, would never agree. In his eyes the girl was a waste of his son's time. More than once Faramir had heard him instruct his oldest son to bed the girl and be done with her. As long as he lived the miller's daughter would never be socially acceptable, never be good enough to marry Boromir, his precious firstborn son. Taste the fruit and then toss it from the vine. . . but hadn't he heard his brother tell the girl he wanted to marry her? Was he serious? What would their father say? Faramir could never imagine defying their father with such outright determination, but Faramir was not Boromir. . . he was not their father's favored son. Would he really push the limits of their father's love so far in marrying a girl he did not approve of?

"I don't think I'll be gone long, really," he was saying as they drew near the mill. "And when I come back I'll ask again."

"And I assure you my answer will remain the same."

"But you've said maybe," he pointed out.

"Perhaps by then I'll have a more definite reply," she withdrew her hand from his and quickened her step as they approached the dwelling she shared with her father and brother.

A bell sounded from the tower that alerted the brothers, "We best hurry home before Father questions our whereabouts," Faramir suggested.

"Go on and start out, I'll catch up in a moment," Boromir replied. Faramir gave him a strange look, but he nodded him forward, adding, "Go on then."

Once they were alone, he turned toward Reyenna who had rested her hand on the gate, "You should go with him, Boromir. I wouldn't want your father to be cross with you on my account."

"I care nothing about what my father says on your account," he held his hand out to her and she reluctantly placed hers inside it. He drew her near and stroked a gentle finger down her cheek, "I really meant what I said."

"I'm frightened to admit that I believe you," she gave a nervous laugh, tilting her eyes upward to study his.

"I want to marry you when I come home."

"Did you not want to marry Giselda just last week?"

"I've never wanted to marry anyone but you," he leaned inward, hovering dangerously close to her lips with his own. Despite the fact that the mill was so far away from the city, they could easily have been seen by someone on watch, or even worse her father. "Kiss me goodbye," he asked. "One last memory of you that I can carry with me into battle."

"If I kiss you one more time, what will I have to give you when you return?"

He turned his head, perplexed by her question, "You mean to deny me one last kiss?"

"With the promise to bestow it upon your safe return."

His slow arm lowered down her back and swept her inward so that there was nothing between them but their garments. "Is it your intention to drive me mad then?"

"I mean to give you something to look forward to," she countered almost defiantly. "This way you have no excuses. You'll have no choice but to return home if you wish to get this kiss."

A stern, soldier's disposition drew at his face. She was really going to make him wait. . . After all those years he had chased her, she had finally kissed him, but now she wouldn't kiss him goodbye. "How will we say goodbye then?" She stepped out of his arms and held her hand out in a gesture of friendship. His eyes widened with disbelief. "Reyenna," he sighed. "You can't be serious."

"Of course I can," she smiled. There was impish mischief in her grin that made him want to kiss her all the more. "I do not wish to say goodbye to you, Boromir, so let us part as we always have, in friendship. That way I will not even feel as though you've gone."

At last he understood, or at least he thought he did. "All right then," he put his hand out and took hers, giving it a firm, sturdy shake. "Although I would rather kiss you again, I will take whatever you have to offer."

"Boromir," she withdrew her hand and started toward the gate. "Tell me this one thing. Will you not think more about what that last kiss might have been like now that I haven't given it to you?" She said nothing more then as she turned around and disappeared inside the miller's cottage.

He stood for a long moment trying to gather his thoughts together before he could pick up his feet and head home. Faramir had already gotten quite far ahead of him, and so he had to sprint to catch up with him. Arriving beside him, he slowed his pace and let out a deep sigh.

"Did you really ask her to marry you, Boromir?"

"Whoa, little brother," his mischievous grin lit up his entire face. "See if I ask you to keep watch for me anymore if you're going to spy on what I'm doing."

"I wasn't spying," Faramir countered. "I simply overheard."

Boromir laughed with good nature, "That sounds like spying to me."

"Well, either way, did you?"

"Did I what?"

"Really ask her to marry you?"

"Indeed I did!" Boromir had never looked so smug as long as Faramir could remember. "And she didn't say yes, but she didn't say no either."

"What about Father?"

"What about him?" Fearlessly Boromir puffed out his chest. "He can't do anything to stop me. She is the woman I choose and if he doesn't accept that. . ."

"He will never accept it," Faramir said sadly.

"Then perhaps we shouldn't mention it to him just yet," he decided, changing the subject. "And I am very proud of you. You did a noble thing offering to help Reyenna and her father at the mill. I would do the same were I not leaving tomorrow."

"I know you would," Faramir replied. "Which is why I offered myself in your stead."

"Thank you," he clapped his brother on the back. "You're a good brother, Faramir, and a good man."

Basking in Boromir's praise, Faramir could say nothing else, and so the brothers carried themselves contentedly in silence for the remainder of the walk back to the city.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter Two: Path of the Hero**

"It's hard for me to imagine where you ever found the time to do all this work for your father and still have a moment to yourself and your studies." Faramir tossed the last sack of meal onto the pile and wiped a powdery hand across his forehead, leaving a whitish stain embedded in the sweat there.

Reyenna leaned against the doorframe and crossed her arms over her chest. In that position, with her head tilted just so, she appeared momentarily the perfect portrait of a grand matriarch, and the moment passed, returning her youthful features as she tested a weary smile. "Well, my father used to do quite a great deal of work more than you and I could ever imagine, but now he's grown more ill and he can hardly do even half of what he used to."

The silence that followed was awkward as Faramir fumbled to find the right words to say. He wasn't sure why, but he felt instinctually responsible for both the loss of Reyenna's eldest brother Siolleth and the absence of the other brother, Elethan. Perhaps it was because of his father's position that he felt responsible, that even in his weak favor and position he might have some influence over the ideas that fashioned in his father's mind. Surely if Denethor knew that meal supply for Minas Tirith and Lossarnarch were such a strain on the ailing miller he would send for the man's son, but Faramir also knew that his father was often of strange mind, and were such a suggestion to come from his younger son he would do the opposite just to spite him.

"I wish there was more that I could do to help here."

He had barely even heard himself mutter those words, but Reyenna had. Her grin broadened and she uncrossed her arms, stepping forward. She reached up and in the most motherly fashion brushed the flour from his forehead, without even looking him in the eyes. "You've already done everything in your power to help my father and me, Faramir. I wouldn't dream to ask anything else if you, even if it was within your power to offer more."

"Well, if it was within my power. . ." he began, his words faltering, trailing off at the end as though he were contemplating just exactly what he might do if ever in a position that he could do more for others. "If it was, you can be certain I would have half the young men my age down here working this mill so that you and your father never had to lift a finger."

Reyenna laughed sweetly and withdrew her hand, "You are a noble young man, Faramir. Always helpful, always looking to make the world right again. . ." Then in her reflection her statement became lost momentarily to the silence. She was looking at him vaguely, as though staring through him while becoming lost deeper and deeper in her thoughts, and then just like that she came back to the moment. "Have you heard word from your brother?"

At her query Faramir was surprised to see her face light up again in a way most flattering and beautiful. Her cheeks had reddened with what he could only presume was a slight blush at the thought of sounding far too eager for her own good. For a moment he worried that in telling her he had heard nothing that splendor would fade from her beauty and leave her looking ghastly and cold, but her expectant eyes were on him, and lively with hope. Could it be that she really did care for his brother? While he had watched the two of them together the day before Boromir had left, he had seen Reyenna as she'd always been: witty, dynamic and far too clever to be a soldier's bride—even one so talented and enigmatic as his brother.

Faramir searched his thoughts for some truth he could tell her without revealing that he knew next to nothing, and then he said, "News from Osgiliath has been slow coming, but Father received word this morning that there hasn't been a single attack in more than a week. He's completely convinced that it's all Boromir's doing."

"Perhaps he's right," she laughed despite herself. "They saw that big galoot coming and ran scared back into the shadows of Mount Doom."

It was there, there at last that he had noticed it, the very thing he had been looking for in her jest. Great fondness curled itself around her teasing words and laughter, and as she turned around to busy herself rearranging the sacks of meal he had already neatly stacked for her he thought he saw her hands trembling. She fidgeted and played with the sacks for a few moments and then went still save for the occasional tremble of her shoulders with well hidden sobs.

"Reyenna," Faramir took a step toward her not sure what he should say next. "Reyenna, I'm sorry. I did not mean for you to cry."

She spun slowly to look at him, and smiled before she laughed through her tears, "Oh, dear Faramir, you're not at fault for my silly tears. Fret not."

"And yet the fact that I have brought you no news at all has made you weep," he held out an embroidered swatch of cloth for her to dry her eyes, but she reached out and folded his hands around it, returning it.

"It is nothing save that I am a great fool, Faramir," she explained. "All that time I played games with him and made him chase me when I should have given in and told the truth, that I loved him too, and now he's gone off on patrol to Osgiliath. . . Osgiliath is dangerous. I've already lost one brother there, and the other has been gone so long I've near forgotten his face."

Faramir face lengthened with sorrow for her, for all of them. It was true. Osgiliath had been lost to them for so long that it seemed a strange thing to be trying to win it back and restore glory to her again, and yet that was what his father continually claimed to be his plan. One day the mere memory of the orcs would be washed clean of the city, they would rebuild it, return it to the beauty it had once retained. . . but at what cost? Already many had been lost in the skirmish battles that broke out in the ruins, men had died defending the remnants of their once glorious city, but there seemed very little hope that they would ever completely reclaim it, not even in Faramir's lifetime.

"And now Boromir has gone too and like a fool I kept to pride and didn't tell him how I feel. If I were to lose him before I had the chance. . ."

He didn't like the idea of losing his brother, or even mentioning that such a thing were a possibility, and so Faramir spoke abruptly, cutting her off before she had the chance to finish that thought, "Boromir is a well-trained soldier. He has been practicing his whole life for even greater battles than the ones he faces in Osgiliath."

Reyenna seemed momentarily chastised when he pointed this out, "Faramir," she started. "I did not mean to question your brother's ability as a soldier. In that he is obviously well trained, but things happen, soldiers in command have been known to make mistakes. Do you not think my brother was a worthwhile soldier?"

Siolleth had held the rank of captain for more than two years before he had been slaughtered by orc bandits in Osgiliath. Faramir had been only ten the year that happened, but he could clearly remember Boromir's grave period of mourning. Siolleth had been one of his mentors, one of his heroes, and to have learned that he was so easily defeated. . . so human had crushed Boromir's spirit, and yet it had pushed him. Knowing that even his heroes could fall had pushed Boromir beyond his limits until even the Captain-General had made mention to Denethor that his eldest son's days of training were long since over. It was time to make him a soldier.

"Your brother was Boromir's hero and mentor," he began. "He taught him everything he knew before he died, and when he left this world my brother was devastated by the loss. He trained harder than any other soldier trained before so that he could live up to Siolleth's expectations and soar beyond them. He will not only fair well, but those soldiers already in place could learn a thing or two from him."

"I'm sorry, Faramir," she replied. "It is not that I do not believe in Boromir. He is a strong soldier with good sense and I do not doubt he will grow immensely from this experience. He will make a fine hero." She grew even more distant when she said this, her breath lingering on the word hero for what seemed a lifetime before she inhaled again. "I sometimes forget just how very young you are, Faramir. Often you are wise beyond your years."

He didn't understand what being young had to do with anything, or why she had complimented him on being wise, but it did nothing to distract him from feeling the need to justify Boromir's soldierly duties and task. He believed fully in his brother's capability as a soldier. He would return well rounded and all the better for the experience as she had said, but there was something more she wanted to say, something she was holding back from him. He could see it in the violet darkness of her eyes. However, whatever it was she longed to say to him quickly passed, and she brushed her hands on the apron she wore.

"I think we've done far more work than need be done for one day. Here, let me give you fresh bread to take home to the Steward." She ducked out of the mill, returning moments later with two loaves wrapped in fine cloth. Faramir could feel that they were still warm through the cloth as he accepted them. "For your father with my blessing."

"Thank you." She had excused him just like that, thanking him for all the help he'd provided to her that week and promising to see him again the next day. As Faramir was walking home, he realized that he was not exactly sure what had just happened. As long as he had known her he had never known her to be emotional, and yet just talking about Boromir and her brother had disturbed her greatly.

Boromir would never forgive him if he ever found out that he had made Reyenna cry on his account. He stopped just outside he gates of the stone city and looked back over his shoulder, toward the mill which appeared well-lit, cozy against the dusty pink tones of oncoming twilight. He watched Reyenna's shadow move from window to window as she served her father supper, taking not even a moment for herself. He drew the warm loaves of bread against his chest, and walked through the gate.

He was thinking about his brother again, about how lucky he would be to come home to a woman like Reyenna. She would take good care of him, give him many strong sons, and for a moment even Faramir was convinced that in her ultimate strength as a women, even she could convince Denethor that she was a worthwhile wife for his son despite her position on the social ladder.

vvv

Mud splashed up in thick globs and stuck to Alrohir's face and forehead. Boromir knew he must not have looked any better, for he could feel the hair clinging to his face in sweaty clumps, and rivers of perspiration dripped down his face and dripped into his eyes, causing him to squint constantly. No matter how he tried not to, the thirst compelled him to constantly lick his lips, which tasted of ash and salt with the occasional earthy consistency of the mud they had been mucking through all day.

"Not much further," Alrohir decided with a hopeless sigh. "We'll move a little further out of the swamp, closer to Men Alcarin before we stop and set up camp for the night."

"How many have been lost here in Tol Gilthoniel?" Boromir asked, swatting almost brutally at his own face in a fashion that had become instinctive in the last few hours. He had honestly thought that he would grow used to the tiny sting of mosquitoes that had been eating him alive all day, but with each pinpricking bite he only felt more agitated.

"Lost?"

Sirion slapped his cheek to no avail, "Lost to the mosquitoes, I think he means."

A good natured chuckled escaped Boromir. It was always a relief to know he had Sirion around to easily guess his meaning when no other understood him. "If none have been lost before, we might well be lost today. I think they've eaten half my face already."

"Is that what's wrong with it then?" Sirion asked, a smug smirk lighting up his face as he glanced over his shoulder in the direction of his friend. "I thought you were born that way?"

"What way is that?

"Ugly!"

The two young man shared a good laugh before they started playfully shoving one another, and their superior soldiers simply rolled their eyes and carried on ahead. They'd been acting that way all afternoon, hardly taking the mission they were on seriously at all, but even Alrohir had begun to believe they'd been sent out on a wild goose chase. Orc did not hide their trails this well. They were clumsy, dirty, and often careless, but they had lost their trail in south Men Aglar and hadn't been able to pick up on them again since.

"You two ladies can stand around hanging the wash all day, but when you're ready to come in, we'll be camped out over there." Glotholin hoisted his pack higher on his back before tossing a disgusted look back at the younger soldiers. It was obvious from his alone that he begrudged them his position. He would rather be stationed back in the city, not on some fruitless hunt where someone was more likely to drown in the bloody swamps than engage in open combat with the enemy. "And you're in charge of foraging enough food for all of us tonight."

"That's not fair," Sirion barked, but Boromir had silenced his friend with a quick elbow to the chest. "Oy, what was that for? You know as well as I do that Gloth eats enough for six men. Where are we going to forage that kind of supper?"

"We'll find plenty, and then some," Boromir decided. He had stopped walking and watched Alhiron and Glotholin edge their way closer to stable ground. Standing so still he could feel the cold stick of mud and sand soaking through his greaves and sinking into the bottom of his boots. With much effort he lifted his left leg and then his right and began trudging through the mire again. "Besides, aren't you the least bit anxious to get away from these stiffs and have a look about on our own?"

"That's all I've been dreaming about all day," Sirion sneered. "However did you guess?"

"Come on, Sir. Don't you think it the least bit strange we lost the trail leagues back and yet we're still mucking on as though they have some kind of clue what they're doing or where they're going."

"And you do have a clue?" Sirion did not appear convinced in the least.

A sheepish grin lifted the corners of Boromir's mouth, "Well, no, but think of all the praise we would merit if while out scouting for supper we stumbled across an orc encampment and slaughter them unsuspecting."

"Tell me again why I let you get me into these things," Sirion hoisted his own pack now to steady himself while pulling heavily against the suction of the mud beneath their feet. "I want to hear the entire story, from the beginning."

"We live for this and you know it," Boromir pointed out.

"'Tis true, but when did we become so arrogant and certain that _we_ actually had a clue about what we were doing?"

"Really this is no different than sneaking out of Master Lathmir's lessons to go off on one of our adventures."

"Again, you speak the truth. I just wonder sometimes what it is about us? Why we deliberately look for trouble."

"Do you remember that dragon we found in the Grey Wood when we were thirteen?"

"That was no dragon," Sirion corrected him. "It was an oversized newt, and if you remember correctly, we only told ourselves that story to keep from crying because we were lost out there, Boromir. I don't think my father ever tanned my hide so well as he did when Siolleth brought us home."

"Nor mine," He chuckled in fond memory. "However you seem to be missing my point completely, Sir." At last the ground was becoming more solid beneath Boromir's feet as they cut left and began heading away from Men Alcarin and their senior officers who had not even taken a glance back in their direction. "You know as well as I do that heroes are not born from avoiding trouble. Were we not born to be heroes among men?"

"The world has been lacking in decent heroes for quite sometime. I suppose in acting as heroic as possible we are simply doing our civic duty."

"Now you're talking," Boromir had been looking forward to solid ground for hours, and now as they stepped down upon it he could feel the ache in his tendons and ankles from trudging through the thick swamps much of the day. The sand and mud inside his boots sloshed and squished with every step they took, and he couldn't help laughing aloud at how ridiculous they both looked and sounded.

"What's so funny?"

"Us," he shook his head, the damp locks clinking to his forehead and cheeks as he did so. "So much for being heroes. You do realize how ridiculous we look out here? Soaked to the greaves, covered from head to boot in mud and slime. We'll be lucky if the Orcs don't mistake us for their own and lead us back to their encampment." The prospect of so perfect a plan lit Boromir's face.

Sirion chuckled, "It's not as if we're out to impress. Unless, of course, you were planning to meet someone other than that foul pack of Mordor orcs we've been pursuing to no avail. Someone like say. . . Giselda?"

"Nah," Boromir trudged forward. "I've finished with Giselda for good. She was never really my type anyway," he replied. His mind had returned constantly to Reyenna ever since they had parted. He had done well to memorize every moment of their last meeting because it haunted his every thought night and day. "I've settled my mind on the one I want now, and no one else will do."

"You settled your mind on her long ago, Boromir, and she's yet to give you the time of day. When are you going to give up on and try for someone in your own league?"

Boromir ignored his friend's cut, a snide grin cast over his shoulder as he announced, "Ah, but there you are sorely misinformed my friend." He met with sly but disbelieving eye. "I've asked her to marry me."

"Reyenna?" Sirion astounded. "_You_ asked _Reyenna_ to marry you?"

"Indeed, I have."

"And how many different ways did she refuse you?"

"She didn't," there was pride coupled with a hint of disbelief in his own voice. It still surprised him that she hadn't flat out refused him. He was still having difficulty processing all that had been exchanged between them, how easily she had played him hot and cold

"She did not accept a proposal from you, you great cheat."

"Mind yourself," he warned. "She didn't refuse me either." That good natured chuckle that was so characteristic of the Steward's eldest son echoed around them as they approached a gap of toppled and abandoned structures. "She said I should ask her again when I return, and then she kissed me."

"You lie."

"I do not!"

"Prove it then," the other challenged.

Their banter continued on this way as they further disappeared into the ruins. Sirion challenged him repeatedly on all the different ways he could prove that Reyenna had kissed him, but not a one of them was valid or legitimate, or so he claimed. As his friend went on, Boromir could feel the cold reality of their position seeping under his skin. He glanced back over his shoulder only to notice that they had gone so far from Men Alcarin that he couldn't even make out the small outline of their senior officers setting up camp anymore. All that was behind them now was ruins, the seemingly endless remnants of toppled structures, old homes that had once been so sturdily built they would surely stand the test of time, all of it now crumbled to dust.

From time to time Boromir could feel the dying pulse of the old city still vibrating with slow caution beneath the stone foundations and it made him shiver inside his armor in the most unearthly fashion. In his mind he could almost hear the dying screams of all who had been lost in Osgiliath, men, women, children. . . soldiers. He swallowed hard against the ache of sudden fear that burned in his throat and looked cautiously into every shadow as they passed.

Sirion, on the other hand, seemed completely unfazed by their situation or the pulse of the city throbbing in slow memory beneath the stone. "It doesn't really favor you that Faramir was there," Sirion countered. "He would lie for you if you asked him to. You're his idol."

"Faramir would never lie," he said, just to keep himself in the moment. He was trying desperately to shrug off the unease slowly creeping in under the shoulders of his armor, tickling behind his hair just at the nape of his neck, but not in any way he felt as comfortable or pleasant. "Faramir's an honest lad."

"Honest in all things except matters that involve his bro—"

There, he had heard it. "Shh," Boromir stopped walking and held his arm out to stop Sirion as well, but the sound of their armor and the slosh of their boots and greaves carried on for a long second after the fact. He had to steady himself completely, escape the pound of his heart in his ears to really listen, but he was sure he had heard something unnatural only moments before, something on the surface of the city that rivaled the dying screams of those who had once lived.

"What is it?"

Boromir shushed his companion with nothing more than a stern glare, which Sirion received well. He too was no listening to the emptiness of the city, the occasional drip of water from the shadows and the underground system, something that would not fit into that setting. Boromir worried now that they had been too lighthearted coming into the ruins now, that they had blown their chances of catching anything by surprise with their laughter and fun. He feared that orcs had surrounded them, that at any moment they would jump out of the well wrought shadows and put an end to their foolish games once and for all.

There it was again, he was sure he heard it that time, but instead of making a sound, he signaled the direction it had come from to Sirion, who nodded, for he too had heard it. Both of them knew it was going to be near impossible to sneak in unheard with wet boots and armor, but they were going to have to do their best. They had trained for these types of situations, and Boromir was searching his mind for instruction, some hint for how to handle the situation without getting them both killed.

They would need to split up, he decided. Split up, they could come in on the party from both sides. Hopefully they would be able to catch them by surprise, or at least frighten them into thinking there was a greater party about to attack than two young, impetuous soldiers with a death wish. Boromir signaled for Sirion to take to the right, and he himself began left. He hoped against hope that he was doing the right thing, that he and Sirion would actually come of this heroes who lived to tell the tale. He swallowed several times, trying to silence his every movement as he did so, but no matter what precautions he took, inside his head he sounded like a great bumbling ox simply asking to be discovered and then slaughtered.

It was strange to him, he thought then, but he couldn't hear Sirion at all, only his own movement, and the occasional rough sound of Orc laughter and bickering. The laughter and bickering grew louder with every step he took nearer their small encampment, but he still couldn't gauge how many of them they would have to face. Would he be able to do it? What would his father say if he were to discover that his own son, his pride and joy had wandered off against orders to try and come back the hero? What would Reyenna say?

He wasn't exactly sure how it became a comfort, but for a moment he could hear the memory of her voice inside his mind. She was scolding him, calling him a big, dumb ox simply asking to be killed. Why would he risk it this way? Instinct had driven him toward the encampment without his senior officers, instinct had driven him on the path of the fool hero. He had approached the encampment, a small band of orcs moaning at one another about whose idea it had been, whose bright idea had almost gotten them killed. He steadied himself against the wall, pressing his shoulders and back into it and clenching every muscle in his body in anticipation. He had never faced actual orcs in hand to hand combat before. Sure, he'd practiced with his teammates and trainers, but he'd never actually engaged the enemy. He suddenly felt his head swimming with the wooziness of doubt and fear. What if all his training was worthless? What if against the actual enemy his soldiering was no good?

"Why do you always have to be the hero?" He muttered to himself under his breath seconds before he leaned around the corner to appraise the situation. There were six of them altogether, five of them fighting over a small scrap of meat, mostly likely conies, he assessed. The sixth stood watch facing the direction he and Sirion had come in. He glanced across the distance to the other side of the ruined temple and then caught a glimpse of his companion's signal.

Pride told him that they could easily wipe out six orcs that were ill prepared for an attack. It was a well known fact that orc were stupid, ill trained in battle and their eyes and skin were no match against bright light, most especially sunlight. The sun was slowly settling into the west, and they would be on the move again under cover of darkness. Boromir was surprised. How had the orcs managed to elude them? They very rarely traveled in daylight, and yet they seemed to have traveled the same distance, if not further in the same amount of time. It made no sense.

He returned to momentary safety pressed tight against the wall and tried to make sense out of his options. He could sneak around to the other side and draw Sirion away, head back to their encampment and alert their superiors to the situation, or, (and this was the most appealing option despite the fact that it terrified him completely,) they could attack, take them by surprise and sleep at ease in their camp that night knowing they had single-handedly rid the fallen city of six more ugly shadows.

Just like that his mind was made, and he entered into the state of mind all good soldiers go. He did not know fear—only that he had a mission, and that mission was death. He swung out from his hiding place with a perpetual call that would sound in his ears for the next days to follow. Following that call was the clang of steel upon armor as he took out the nearest orc with one fell sweep and turned his sword arm inward to take care of the next. Sirion followed his lead and attacked from the opposite wall, immediately wiping out the first enemy he came in contact with before stunning the other with his shield and spinning around to face the guard who was ready with a poor crafted scimitar, rusty with blood and years of decay.

The guard made a strange grunting sound that could have been a battle taunt had it made sense, but it was quickly stifled as Boromir made a swift slice across the orc's throat with his dagger before pushing him away and watching as he toppled to the ground clutching his throat. He turned then to find Sirion pressing back the sixth orc while the one he had stunned was rolling back to life just behind his legs.

"Sirion!" Boromir called, "Behind you!"

It was an utter fluke that Sirion whirled quickly, dodging a would be slice to the tendon on the back of his leg and brought the brunt of his shield down with a force that broke the grounded orc's neck. He elbowed the other out of his way, and once he was at arm's length, he swung his sword in one clean slice. The head fell to the ground, a surprised look marring it's hideous face as it rolled to a stop just at Boromir's feet.

"Great Mercy!" he heard himself gasp.

Being in battle had disconnected him from himself completely, and even though some part of him on the inside was trying to reconnect, to pull him into his body again, he was still far enough out that his words sounded as though someone else were speaking them from several leagues away.

"Are you all right?" Sirion queried between gasps of breath. His face was pale as ash, and grew paler with every breath he drew into himself.

"I'm fine," he replied, taking note as he drew in closer to his body again that he was gasping as well. Was that tightness in his chest, and the sound of furiously beating war drums, or was that his heart? "I'm fine," he muttered again, sweeping a circle about to look at the strewn bodies of orcs, their black blood spilling out upon the white stone in shocking pools. "What about you?"

Sirion could only nod. He was clutching at his stomach as he took the aftermath into himself. Moments later he plunged toward the corner of the building and the sound of his retching echoed through the barren streets. Boromir would not chastise him for being sick. The same queasiness had risen in him as well, and it had taken everything inside him to hold it back.

Was this how heroes felt? Did they question their honor when attacking their enemies unsuspected? Did the waves of ill feeling sweep over them all, leaving them to question the worth of their deed. Boromir glanced down at the black pools of blood gravitating toward the cracks in the stone and forming thick puddles that would eventually wash away with rain, or seep inside the earth with time. It was the first time he had taken life from another living being that was not much different than he was. The orcs, though foul and uneducated, stupid and uncivilized, spoke and though similarly to men.

For some reason it didn't feel very heroic at all, and when later they returned without food to the camp and told their superior officers what they had done, while the others had celebrated, Sirion and Boromir both sat in silent contemplation by the fire. Neither of them felt much like eating or speaking, and when it came time to unravel their bedrolls Boromir lay stiff in silence, staring up into the night sky and trying to understand the stars, their meaning. . . and why for the first time in his life he felt so very small and insignificant in relation to it all.

A/N: Because this story is so deeply involved, and because I am trying desperately to capture a somewhat accurate portrayal of Gondor and the events that took place during this time. Due to the nature of research that must be done to keep events in order, it may take awhile between updates. I have been writing this story for a year now, and have four chapters complete. I am currently working on Chapter Five. Thank you in advance for reading, and for your patience while I share this tale.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter Three: The Same Silver Moon**

Faramir ducked in hoping to go unnoticed, but Denethor, son of Ecthelion rarely let his youngest son's misdeeds go unnoted. Far too often of late Faramir had been disappearing outside the walls of the city for long hours that could have been better spent on sword play and battle tactics. This time Denethor was waiting for him, and cut him off before he could slip into the bathhouse to wash away the remnants of his whereabouts.

"Faramir."

The lad turned quickly, jerking in a nervous fashion as he realized he'd been caught somewhat red-handed returning from a place he should not have been, no matter the nobility of his intentions. "Father," he swallowed. "I was just coming to see you."

Denethor narrowed the cold scrutiny of his wild gaze over his youngest son, squinting just so that it appeared looking upon the boy gave him great displeasure, "Is that so?"

"Er-yes." Faramir lied. "I was coming see if there was word this day from Osgiliath. If you had news from Boromir." 

Faramir knew that there was a slight chance that the mere mention of his older brother would distract his father from whatever tirade he had planned against him. Denethor had become sketchy in Boromir's absence, quick-tempered and hard-pressed toward leniency unless he were caught up in news regarding the great deeds Boromir was performing in Osgiliath. According to Denethor, Boromir was single-handedly reclaiming the city and all who had gone there before him had proved utterly useless. The simple fact of the matter was, no one had heard directly from Boromir at all. He had been gone nearly four months and all news that had come in had been about him, not from him.

The chill of Denethor's gaze did not warm, but grew colder and more sharp as he took a step toward the boy, "Or is it that you have had news from Boromir that you are keeping from me?"

Faramir took a cautious step back. "No, Father," he stammered.

"And where were you all afternoon then?" Denethor scanned over the boy, taking in the disheveled appearance, the filth on his clothes and the obvious smudges of white across his cheeks and forehead.

"I was. . ." Faramir's mind moved quickly. He didn't wish to lie to his father, and give him more cause to be cross with him, but he also knew that if Denethor discovered that he had been spending his days down at the mill, when he could have been practicing tactics and swordplay, he would be severely punished for his gallantry. "I was on my way home from tactics this afternoon when I passed by the mill. The whole place had gone mad with some feral enchantment. There was meal everywhere, Father, and so I offered my services in discovering the nature of the enchantment."

Denethor's lips pursed tightly together, the lines around his mouth etched so deep into his skin that they appeared as scars. As long as Faramir could recall, those lines of displeasure had marred his father's face. Had they been there always, or were they simply marks of sorrow at having lost his wife—a loss that he had always blamed Faramir for, most perhaps because of his two sons Faramir was most like Finduilas in appearance and disposition. Denethor licked his lips, and crossed his arms, studying his son with grave irritation.

"And did you?"

For a moment Faramir wasn't sure what his father was asking. "I'm sorry, sir? Did I what?"

"Did you discover the nature of the enchantment?"

"Oh," he sighed inwardly, realizing that this grand falsehood was about to cost him far more than he could afford. "No, I couldn't guess it, but while I was there, I did lend myself and my services to try and put the mill back in order so that the city does not go without meal."

"I see," Denethor clucked. "And what about yesterday? Where were you yesterday afternoon that you came stumbling in late for the evening meal?" Before he could answer, Denethor increased the pressure of his questioning. "And the day before that, what was your excuse? There is a long line of days in which there are several excuses at your ready, Faramir, or perhaps it would do best for me to call them what they are." Denethor took a step toward him. "Lies, Faramir."

"But Father, I really was helping at the mill this afternoon," he countered. He gestured to his flour spattered clothes and powdered hands. "If you don't believe me, you can stop to ask the Miller himself."

It was the fact that Faramir had challenged him to check his story that seemed to anger Denethor the most, for without another word on the subject, he issued warning for Faramir to head straight to bed without his supper as though he were a boy no more than five or six summers. Faramir gladly escaped his father's dinner-hour scrutiny, and ducked safely into the dark, but quiet confines of his rooms. Part of him was angry with his father—so angry that he had to hide the good deed he was doing simply because his father possessed the foolish stubbornness of a boar.

As long as Faramir could remember there was a great tension surrounding the Steward's relationship with the Miller's family. Reyenna's mother Lalieth had died within days of Faramir's own mother, and this death had somehow been taken by the Steward as some grave insult against his own grief. Faramir had never understood it. Of course being five years old at the time his mother had passed, how could he be expected to understand, but now at nearly ten and seven summers he could still not grasp the nature of his father's prejudice and insult.

He had treated Reyenna with indifference and cruelty at every turn, and when Boromir had first boasted that he would take her as his wife it had become a difficult argument between father and son. She was unworthy, Denethor barked, and Boromir always countered that worth and beauty was in the eye of the beholder. In his eyes Reyenna was perfection, but Denethor would hear nothing of it. Despite the fact that Reyenna had shown absolutely no interest in Boromir all through their adolescence, Boromir remained determined, and never failed to argue that fact with his father.

The year Boromir had turned seventeen, twelve-year old Faramir had overheard their father tell his eldest son that if he really must have the miller's daughter, he should have her and be done with it. It wasn't altogether uncommon for the son of the Steward to play a popular role among the young ladies in the city, even if they were below his class level. Denethor assured him that to have her would quell whatever foolish notion had gotten into his head that this was the girl he was meant to make his wife.

Boromir had not argued. In fact he had said nothing, and after that he'd let their father go on believing that he had taken the fruit and then tossed it from the vine, as he had so crudely suggested. A sigh escaped Faramir, who perched in the seat of his window and looked down over Minas Tirith into the shadowed valley beyond. He could just barely make out the outline of the Miller's cottage, the dim glow of comfort burning in the window. He thought he saw her shadow pass across that light as she brought a bowl of stew to the table and her ailing father.

She had not said much of late in regards to Boromir, but it was obvious whenever she looked at Faramir it was his brother that caused the wrinkles in her brow. But still, she was grateful to Faramir for coming every day, for bringing her what little news he had from his father even if that news had become utterly impersonal with the slow passage of time. Other than that news, they did not speak of Boromir, or Osgiliath, but did their work in silence. When the workload was finished she would smile at him, thank him whole-heartedly for his noble kindness, and then she would send him away with fresh baked cakes and a wan smile.

Four months and no word. All of them seemed to hold the simplest memory of their last days with Boromir close—as though the company they kept would keep the spirit of his presence alive and with them, but even Faramir's hope was waning. It was unlike his brother to stay away so long and not send word home to their father, but even more unlike him to purposely break the heart of the woman he had always loved. Faramir turned soft grey eyes toward the distant direction in which Osgiliath lay, and wondered why there had been no word from his brother.

He watched the slow illumination grow atop the mountain with the rising of the moon, and took comfort in the fact that somewhere out there, his brother was looking up at the same silver moon.

vvv

"How many times are you going to stop and start that letter?" Sirion unrolled his pack beside his companion and dropped down in a clamor as the plates of his armor shifted and clanged.

A weary sigh escaped Boromir and he dropped his head back against the truck of the tree he'd rested against. "What are you talking about?"

"You know bloody well what I am talking about. Every night you sit over here in solitude and you start writing home to her, but you've sent not a single missive home at all. So I ask again, how many times are you going to stop and start that letter?"

"You don't know what you're talking about," Boromir shrugged. "I've finished the letter a hundred times."

"Then why not send it?"

Boromir looked down at the crinkled parchment in his lap. He'd been carrying around stacks of letters in his pack now for months, all of them different, all of them to her, but not once had he felt strong enough to send a single one of those letters home. He had exposed himself in those letters, bared his soul to her and confessed a greater number of fears than he had ever even realized he possessed. Inside he knew that these confessions would bring them closer, but the greater part of him feared that she would reject him and call him a coward.

"I will when I am ready," he muttered, tucking the letter away for safe keeping—for later when Sirion was asleep and he had a moment's peace and clarity of mind. "And what about you? I suppose you send home two or three letters a day."

"Nah," he shrugged. "I would rather not send any at all, but I at least give my mother the satisfaction of my wellness time and again."

"I have not done that either," Boromir muttered in a guilty tone. "Written home to my father or Faramir, I mean."

"It changes a man being out here," Sirion said, rolling onto his back to look up at the ash-laden skyline. "I used to wonder how they could come out here and not want to come back home whence came their time, but I think I understand now why they stay."

"I doubt you understand anything," Boromir closed his fist and jabbed it playfully at his friend. "You always were a bit daft."

Sirion didn't laugh, but looked gravely in his friend's direction, "Once you have seen the kinds of things that we have seen, it is hard to look at the world we came from through the same rose colored looking glass."

"Aye," Boromir nodded. "You try to imagine going home because it was once a place of safety and security, and yet you know now that there is no such harbor for either of those illusions."

"Now that is not altogether true, my friend." Sirion leaned upright and propped on his elbow to get a better look at his companion. "Men like you and I make safety and security a reality for our people."

But Boromir didn't feel that this was altogether true. He had cowered in the wake of impending death during those moments before the battle-haze took over to guide him willfully through the task before him. All it would take was one moment's difference and just like so many others he could have fallen on the black and rusty blade of an Orc sword. In the presence of the shadow, fear of failure intensified, some ill bane of Sauron's presence, he assumed, but nonetheless there were far few days he felt a hero than a coward. What would Reyenna think of him then? Would she think him less than a man? Mock him, scorn him?

He didn't answer Sirion, but withdrew into the silence of his thoughts. From time to time he played that over and over in his mind. Was it true? Were men like them the hope and future of their people, or was it not best to leave the troubles and tasks to great thinkers like Mithrandir. . . like Faramir himself would one day be. Boromir wanted to believe that it was his task and his alone, but the coward that had reared his head was all too often there to taunt his dreams and visions of heroic grandeur. He thought of Faramir and tried to imagine how his little brother would fare in the darkness of Osgiliath, and in the whole of his heart he hoped to the Gods his brother never need go there as a soldier.

The darkness crept in, unnatural in that it blocked out much of the night sky from time to time with the thick haze of dust and ash that often littered the air. Boromir sighed and clutched the quill he'd been using to write to her. He'd give anything to see the moon, and for a fleeting moment he allowed himself to believe that one single glimpse of that silver orb against the darkness might restore the hope that the land around him had been slowly draining. He watched the black fingers of unnatural darkness caress the sky, choking out the stars and refusing to let even the faintest light through, and in that darkness he swallowed hard and wrote down all of his fears to her once more.

vvv

Reyenna had just finished drying the last of the supper dishes and stood at the window watching the moon rise over the mountains on the distant horizon. The cottage was startlingly silent now that her father had gone to bed, and from time to time she savored the rattling hack of his cough from the other room. He was dying. She knew that now, but for so long she had held on to the hope that he would pull through and be the man she still remembered him to be since her youth. Day by day, however, she was losing hope, fighting helplessly against the drain of her responsibilities so that they would not pull her down so far that she was no longer sure she could carry on.

It was only thanks to Faramir that she'd been able to even manage of late. His help at the mill and his cheerful company had kept up her spirits, but sometimes just the sight of him was enough to bring a glassy shimmer to her eyes. The two brothers were so very different, and yet there were traces of Boromir in his younger brother that reminded Reyenna of the final goodbye they had shared. Why hadn't she been more aggressive? Why had she denied that last kiss he'd begged her for?

Why? Because it had been part of the game they had been playing with one another since they were fare children. When Boromir had asked for her hand it was no more serious than any other game they played, and for years she'd led him along laughing, but in her heart she'd kept the whim that he would always ask her until the day she finally told him yes. The realist inside her knew it was an impossible dream, becoming the wife of the Steward's son. She was a simple peasant girl by the standards of the Steward, and she knew that already he was plotting his favorite son's future without her in it.

Reyenna clutched the windowsill in front of her so tightly that her knuckles had turned white. Now every day she waited for word, some kind of sign that he was still out there waiting for her, thinking of her, and trying to do everything in his power to come home to her. Why in her pride on how well she had kept up in playing the game had she not asked that he write to her? Surely then there would have been word, but four months with no word, not even to his family. . .

She couldn't stop worrying despite reports from incoming soldiers and squires assured them all that the Steward's son was alive and well, and making quite a name for himself among the ranks currently stationed in Osgiliath. He was an instant hero, he and Sirion both, and Reyenna truly believed they deserved the title wholly. Both boys had given everything to the Steward's cause over the years, their time, their studies, their attention and now their lives.

Their lives. . . this thought had caught in the back of her throat like an aching thorn. She swallowed several times to rid herself of that feeling, but it was no use. She needed to hear it from him, to know that he was safe and alive and still thinking of her, but how else could she procure that kind of information if not from him herself? Several times she had thought about writing him a short missive, but what would she say that held any more importance than the cause he was fighting for? Would the words come home to me startle and frighten him. . . push him away? Surely they would not. After all, he had asked her to marry him, had he not?

Drying her hands, she stepped away from the window and laid the damp rag flat over the cupboard to dry. She pushed in both of the chairs and walked with the lantern from room to room to make certain everything was in its proper place before turning in for the night. She was weary, wearier than she had ever been, and for a moment she wondered if this was the sort of wear and worry that had done her mother in—that was now eating slowly away at her father. The loss of Siolleth had started the downward spiral of their father's health, but then Elethan had gone too, and there was rarely word from him. Day by day their father dwindled as the remnants of his livelihood remained loosely held together by the hands of his only daughter.

She turned down the quilt and set the lantern on her bedside table. Sitting down on the edge of the bed a heavy sigh escaped her. How would she make if her father did not live? How could she alone hold together the mill that had sustained their family through generations? If only Elethan would come home, she thought, but really she knew it was for Boromir that she truly pined. Somehow she imagined that if he were to take her in his arms he could carry her away from all the sorrow and burden that had become her life. Reyenna drew in a breath, stifling the sob that had caught at the back of her throat, and swallowing it before it could consume her.

She wouldn't cry. She wouldn't give up hope.

She extinguished the lantern and pulled the blanket up around her, hugging it close to her to ward off the chill of her reality. She closed her eyes and thought of Boromir, concentrating hard on the memory of his face and the soft caress of his lips to hers the last time she had seen him.

He had to write soon. He simply had to. 


	4. Chapter 4

He was dreaming, and strange of him to notice, but it was impossible that the mist and haze that carried him along be any other than a dream. Besides, the world in which he stumbled was a soundless place, barren and devoid of any sense of reality or voice. Even when he opened his mouth to cry out for someone, anyone, there was nothing, and while he swallowed against the dry emptiness of his own speech a grave fear gripped him from within. All along he had expected this to happen. Out there in the murky and ash he had gotten lost, and now some ill-shadowed spell had taken his ability to cry out for help.

The mist swirled and looped around him like dancing hags, the ragged grey tips of their tattered cloaks just barely touching his skin with their cold, damp cloth. He turned and twisted to try and catch them in the act, but they were smarter than he was, always one step ahead, touching the cheek he'd turned against them to draw him in the other direction. He wanted to scream at them, shout for them to get lost, go away, leave him alone and let him find his brother, but his voice was lost. He could almost hear the sinister laughter of those mocking hags, but like the dream, they were not real, and so they faded as he pulled through the water.

Searching, searching, always searching to bring his older brother home again. . .

~v~^~v~^~v~

"Faramir," Boromir muttered and startled from the light slumber that had accosted him against his will. He jerked to stand straight, easing back into the aching muscles of his shoulders and rolling his head along his thick, armored shoulders.

The sound of his armor moving alerted his partner on the watch, and Glotholin stepped over to nudge him. "Are you awake, Boromir?"

"Of course I'm awake!" He snorted, and raised a damp hand into the four day stubble on his chin. "I thought I saw something in the water, is all."

"Your brother, Faramir?" Glotholin whispered.

Had he been dreaming of Faramir? He couldn't remember. The last remnants of whatever fleeting dream he'd seen had left him the minute he'd woken himself completely. However, he vaguely recalled that things had been damp in that place, and cold. Had there not been the touch of cold water droplets dripping against his face like teasing fingers? To answer his curiosity, a drop of water blopped from the banner above him and onto his cheek, warming as it crawled downward like a slow tear.

"No," he shook his head, the very movement bringing him closer to the alert state he should have been occupying all through his duty. "It was probably just the darkness playing tricks."

"Aye," Glotholin nodded. "You'll see a lot of that here. Foul treachery of the mind, your own thoughts a betrayal. Watch yourself, my friend, else the darkness will grab hold of your mind, and no crueler torment does a man face than losing his senses to the creeping dark of Mordor."

It was the kind of thing that Boromir could remember the older boys teasing them with in stories when he was a boy. The Creeping Dark of Mordor. . . it sounded like some foul entity that preyed upon those that dwelled just near the thresholds of sleep. Once weak and unable to protect himself, the Creeping Dark would steal a man's soul, and he would become as foul and black as the very Orcs and demons he served to protect his world against.

He shivered inside his armor, and swallowed against the aching lump in his throat. "Do you write home often, Glotholin?"

The other man seemed somewhat caught of guard by the query, and from the corner of his eye, Boromir watched his partner cock his head in curious thought. "Often enough, I suppose, why do you ask?"

Boromir shook his head, "No reason."

Glotholin didn't believe there was no reason, but he didn't press the issue. Instead he took a step forward, and leaned over the stone balcony that was their watchtower. The water beneath the tower reflected nothing but the grave darkness back at them, but he watched the obsidian sheet for some kind of movement. After several moments of silence, he cleared his throat and admitted, "I've a lady I intend to marry upon my leave. It gives her great relief to receive my letters."

"Ay," Boromir nodded instinctively. "I suppose it would ease a troubled heart to know her lad was safe."

"And what of your young lady, Son of the Stewart," he took a step back so that he was beside Boromir again and cast a sidelong glance to drive his query home. "Have you eased her troubled heart since you've been gone? I've seen you taking notes quite often enough, but not a single one's been sent, I'd say."

This observation was like a cold hand grasping at Boromir's troubled heart and conscience. He drew in a strangled sort of breath, and shook the damp tendrils of his hair to hide his face. "So now the entire squadron is keeping my affairs under observation?"

"It is big news that our future Steward has chosen his future bride, mostly because she's quite a catch and quite a few of the lads are jealous."

Boromir had always hated how his affairs, no matter how great or small, were made public display. Certainly by now his father had heard that he'd proposed to Reyenna, and meant to make good on that proposal the very moment he arrived home from his current tour of duty. Sometimes he tried to tell himself that was why he did not write home, not to Reyenna, or to his father and brother, but all the letters he had been carrying around were finally starting to accumulate in his pack. Being away from her had only reinforced his already insatiable desire for her. The distance had only confirmed what he had believed for certain many years: he loved her. Yes, love, and he wasn't the least bit ashamed, but his father would never allow it.

It was horrid that he had to keep reliving that. His father would never allow it, and yet there he was a grown man, already having survived more encounters with Orcs and other foul beasts than he cared recollect or count. It should not matter what his father willed for him—he was answerable for his own decisions and as far as Reyenna was concerned, he had already decided!

Yet here anxiety curled the cold tendrils of its fingers around his aching heart. It had been months that he'd been gone—months with no word from him. What if she had believed his last confessions to her, his proposal had all been a game? What if she moved on to marry another because she did not believe his proposal held any validity? His foolish heart palpitated with ridiculous what if after what if, until finally he drew in a strange and quivering breath.

"They have every right to be jealous," Boromir drew himself back to the conversation at hand. "She is the most beautiful girl in all this Middle-earth, and she will be mine."

Glotholin chuckled, and gave a hearty thwack to his companion's armor, "Atta boy, Boromir! Don't let anything stand in your way."

"I won't," he willed in all honesty. In fact, he had resolved himself to send every letter he had written to her, no matter how cowardly or ridiculous the moment his shift on the watch had ended.

It seemed strange, and almost unfounded, but that brief admission from his counterpart that he was a lucky man to have won a heart like hers had relit the fire in his heart for her, and he knew that no matter what his heartfelt letters revealed to her, she was his destiny, and his emotions would only seal their inevitable fate.

~v~^~v~^~v~

The cottage seemed unearthly cold that morning, as Reyenna wrapped in her cloak and made wearily for the door. Her heart thudded inside her a great pattern of doom. Only bad news came at so early an hour, before the sun had even risen, and as she reached with trembling hand for the door, the knock arose from the other side again. What if her brother had been killed? What if Boromir. . . no, no one would dare send news to her if Boromir had been injured or killed. She was no one to his family, and even Faramir had stopped coming lately to help at the mill. He had sent a friend in his stead, but it seemed a duty of obligation now, and the young man, a squire named Beregon, often made both Reyenna and her father feel incompetent and uncomfortable in their own mill.

No, this news had to be of her brother, and the tears stung the edges of her lids. She blinked steadily, her left eye twitching involuntarily as her inner-guide tugged her back to Boromir. This messenger came bearing news of her beloved, but no matter how she tried to listen to this voice of reason, the logic in her only beat it back down. Boromir had forgotten her. She'd been nothing more than a last minute pursuit for him, and since he hadn't won her, what need would he have to write?

The rapping rose again, and this time she seized the door and pulled it open, ready to take on whatever death or burden Mordor had brought to their doorstep this time. There was a young man on the other side of the door, barely of age, she thought, and noticed only a thin layer of soft hair lining his jaw. He was a squire, a messenger, and in his arms was a package, which he held out to he strangely.

"For the Lady Reyenna," he said. "From the humble soldier, Boromir."

She swallowed with great uncertainty, "Boromir?"

"Yes, milady. He sends his regards and deepest apologies. He has asked that I wait in your stables for word."

"Word?"

"Reply, lady, to his missives," he explained.

"Oh," she nodded. "yes, yes of course. You may take up rest in the stable. I will bring you a hot breakfast myself."

"No, no need," he held up his hand. "I've got strict orders not to keep you from my master's letters." With that, he turned on heel, and started toward the stable.

Reyenna felt both confused and relieved at the bundle of parchments wrapped in her arms. So many months had passed without word, and yet it all came now. Would there be an explanation in one of those letters? She withdrew into the house, and by the dim light of her morning lantern, she sat down at the table, and unraveled the bundle of letters.

The very first was dated on the very same day he had left, but why? Why hadn't he sent it to her? The next letter seemed darker and more desolate. Each one was filled with confessions of fear and loneliness, worry over his worth and pain from his own cowardice. How could he care for her, if he were not even fit to stand guard and protect their city from the creeping dark of Mordor. Each letter was more dark and fearful than the next, until finally she arrived on the most recently dated missive.

_My Beloved Reyenna,_

_You have been as an unspoken companion here with me all along this cold, and uncertain journey. Your face has always been just a memory away, and each time I close my eyes I can still remember the feeling of your kiss to my lips. You are all that has kept me going in this horrible and destitute place. At night I try to look to the sky, and hope for a glimpse at the moon so that I can tell myself I look upon the very same moon as my love, but the murk and gloom is so thick here, that most nights I am lucky to make even the faintest sliver out of the darkness._

_I was wrong to keep these letters from you so long. I feared the worst, that in a world where I had so little control, the one thing I felt was certain, that being my love for you, would know the horrors I have seen and turn a cold cheek. I need the reassurance of your love now more than ever, and yet all I've had from you is that promise of a future that I nightly dream and fear you will give away to someone else. Please promise me you'll wait for me, forever if you have to, and send your love through my messenger. The cut of your sharp wit and beauty of your hand will surely lift me from this hell I have allowed myself to dwell in for so long._

_With Love_

_Boromir_

Reyenna read and reread that last letter so many times that her eyes blurred over with tears and she could no longer even make out the words. A great relief had swept over her, lifting the burden of her worry and grief away like a wet cloak. She drew in a deep breath, cleansing her sorrow and renewing her belief in their future, and as she exhaled the weight of the great shadow lifted away, and she felt peace again.


End file.
